


All Fun and Drinking Games

by Zeborah



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Drinking Games, Gen, Serial Killers, but secretly headcanon, crackfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 09:06:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1422493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeborah/pseuds/Zeborah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They may all have had a little too much to drink when they start talking about what kind of serial killers they'd be...</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Fun and Drinking Games

To be honest they're all a little more drunk than they should be. Hotch and Rossi are in a quiet corner watching the rest of the scattered team: Morgan dancing; JJ hanging in there with the darts; at another table Garcia pushing a pink cocktail on a dubious Reid while Prentiss glumly downs her latest beer. "It just gets to me, you know? You know what I mean." They do, because she's said it several times this evening, but she really wants to make sure they understand the nuance of her complaint. "It's just, one day he's a normal person, a perfectly normal person, and, and then, snap!"

"Try this, gloom-meister," says Garcia.

"Don't," Reid puts in, but his warning goes unheeded.

Prentiss obediently takes a sip of the cocktail, and pulls a face. " _Urgh._ That's— That's _really_ pink." Garcia nods cheerfully, but her victory at the distraction is short-lived as Prentiss continues, "It just makes me wonder, you know? It makes me wonder, if a guy like that could just— just—"

"Snap?" Reid supplies.

"Exactly. Could just snap and become a serial killer. I mean so could anyone. Couldn't they? So could we."

"Reid couldn't."

"Yes, I could," he says, offended.

That makes Prentiss laugh, at least. "What would you be, an injustice collector?"

He gives it serious thought. "I don't think so. I think I'd find people on the street doing drugs and I'd— I'd ask, do they know that's going to kill them, and if they didn't care I'd—" His fingers wriggle demonstratively. "—Slip something extra in."

"That's a little harsh," Garcia says in pleased surprise. She overrides his attempt at a protest with, "As for yours truly, anyone hurts an animal, they'd get my knitting needles in their eyes. And ears. And other soft tissue."

"You'd need to sharpen them," says Prentiss.

"I can do that. There are machines." She stabs a finger across the table at her. "What about you? What would you be?"

She sighs. "I guess I'd... No, this is silly."

"What's silly?" Morgan asks, fumbling himself onto the stool beside her.

"Nothing."

"We're talking about what kind of serial killer we'd be," says Garcia. "I'd take revenge on animal torturers with my knitting needles and the good doctor there would poison homeless druggies."

"Not like that," he objects. "Like an angel of mercy. I just think, we spend all this time trying to fix everything, and, and saying it gets better, and really it doesn't always. There are things, there are people who are so broken that everything just makes it worse. So isn't it better to just accept that? If that's the case?"

"Still sounding kind of judgey there, Doctor Kevorkian," she says.

He chews his lip. "Maybe I need to write a manifesto."

"Keep it short or no-one will read it," Morgan advises, and Reid takes this on board with a nod. "Me, I'd hunt down the guys that abuse kids and I'd put one through the head. No need to waste any more than that."

"Drywall?" Prentiss asks.

"Nah, too traceable. God gave us the Potomac for a reason."

"You'd have to dig out the bullet."

"Who says I'd be using my own gun? Come on, Prentiss, your turn."

"We are _so_ drunk," she demurs.

"Uh huh. Now spill, girl."

Reluctantly she says, "I'd stake out abortion clinics."

"You would?" Garcia asks in surprise.

"Yeah. I'd look for the girls who are there on their own. Then I'd find out what son of a bitch abandoned them like that, and I'd cut him open and—"

Much of what follows is drowned out by Garcia sticking her fingers in her ears and singing "Lalalalala!"

"—And see how _he_ likes it," she finishes at last.

Morgan shakes his head in somewhat taken aback admiration. "Remind me never to cross you, Emily Prentiss."

"Too damn right," she tells him.

Reid's frowning. "I'm not sure that maggots would get big enough. But there are some species of—"

"Lalalalala!" Garcia sings again.

A short discussion later, Morgan asks, "So who's next?"

They look at each other for a moment, counting. Reid is first to conclude, "JJ," and to call over to the dartboard, "Hey, JJ!"

She doesn't hear through the noise of the crowded nightclub. "JJ!" Garcia yells, and Morgan bellows, "JJ!" and her dart misses the board entirely. She turns and shouts back an annoyed "What?" and they wave her over. When she shakes her head in exasperation, Prentiss takes up the general chant of, "JJ! JJ! JJJJJJJ! ...J!"

Over in the quiet corner Hotch and Rossi look at each other and stand up. It takes Rossi three tries, and almost a fourth when the first three make him laugh too hard. Hotch only needs one: he just has to think about it for a moment first, and move very, very deliberately.

JJ reaches the common table and complains, "My shoes hurt and you made me miss my shot."

"You haven't made your shot in sixteen minutes," Reid points out. "The only reason you're still winning is because those guys are even more drunk than you are."

She concedes the point with a sighed, "I am so going to regret this in the morning. —What did you want, anyway?"

Morgan does the honours: "What kind of serial killer would you be?"

"LDSK," she says promptly.

"You had to even ask?" Rossi laughs. He and Hotch have arrived just in time to hear question and answer. Hotch is smiling too, in case they hadn't already guessed he's as drunk as the rest of them.

"She still has to tell us who she'd kill," Reid informs them.

Garcia adds, "And then it's your turn, boss-men."

Hotch raises his eyebrows. "You realise," he says, enunciating as carefully as he's been walking, "if this ever goes to trial, we'll all be called to testify?"

"I won't be ashamed of what I've done," Prentiss assevers.

He shares another glance with Rossi and says, "I'll call us some cabs."

The line he walks in as he extracts himself from the discussion is very almost straight. Morgan suppresses a snort; Rossi doesn't even try; and Reid presses JJ, "So who would it be?"

"Journalists," she decides. "Journalists with spiky blond hair and _stupid_ ties."

His brow furrows thoughtfully. "That's kind of specific."

"Yeah, JJ," says Garcia. "Is there something you're not telling us?"

"They are _so_ cocky and annoying."

"I think there's something she isn't telling us," Rossi agrees.

She tosses her hair and reaches for the abandoned cocktail. "Does this taste as pink as it looks?"

"Pinker," say Prentiss and Reid in unison.

She drinks it anyway, and gasps: "Oh my god. The _pink_. The... The _pink_!"

"The really obvious deflection," Morgan teases her.

She shoots him a look more laser-focused than any sniper's rifle, and he puts up his hands in good-natured surrender. "Isn't it someone else's turn right now?"

Rossi says, "Well, if I hadn't left Long Island I coulda been a mob enforcer."

"Doesn't count," Garcia rules. "It's got to be what you _would_ be, if you became a serial killer right now."

"Mm, that's harder."

Morgan says, "Don't tell us you've never thought about it."

"Well," he admits, "I always thought that if someone was a _real_ psychic, then say someone else sent them a personal item to get a reading off of — and say that person was planning to rig the psychic's gas mains — well, wouldn't a _real_ psychic know not to light a match that morning?"

"Sending a personal item's going to get you caught pretty quick," Morgan points out.

"Ehh. It doesn't have to actually be mine. It's not like the fakers will know the difference anyway. So what'd I miss?"

They spend a few minutes recapping for his benefit their various hypothetical crimes. In due course Hotch returns, having verified that the cab rank that was outside the club when they first arrived is still there. With an indulgent smile he says, "If you're all done incriminating yourselves, I think it's time we headed home."

They get up amenably, Garcia all but falling off her stool and having to be propped up by Prentiss, who isn't much steadier on her feet. They pause to check that no purses, wallets, phones or uncomfortably high-heeled shoes are being left behind. In the midst of the general reckoning, Reid finishes a calculation and concludes, "You haven't told us yours yet."

Hotch quirks his brow. "I'm good."

"Come on, Hotch," JJ encourages him, "you wouldn't want us to do anything you wouldn't do."

"Go on, Aaron," says Rossi, eyes dancing in amusement.

He shakes his head firmly. "I like my job."

They persist as he leads the way swervingly to the exit: Prentiss assuring him, "You know we'd never rat you out," and Morgan agreeing, "We've got your back, man."

"I'm sure you would, but really, where would I even find the time?"

"That is so sad," Prentiss sighs, and Garcia maintains, "You've got to have some extra-curricular activities. It's part of a balanced... a balanced lifestyle."

"It's true," Reid says. "Research proves—" He's not quite so drunk that he doesn't observe Hotch's pained gesture that really he doesn't need to go on.

But there's strength in numbers. Especially because they know Hotch isn't getting in a cab until they're all safely on their way home, and they're not getting in a cab until he answers the question. So finally he looks around at the panel of his inquisitors, to be sure they really want this. "Like I said," he says then, "I like my job."

"Aaron, Aaron, Aaron," Rossi chides, while Garcia and JJ groan in disappointment.

He continues steadily, "So I'd look for cases involving abusers, or sadists. I'd make sure it was a clean investigation and we had the right guy. And then I'd make sure he paid for what he's done."

They all agree in nods and shared glances that they can totally see Hotch doing that. Morgan adds, "Pity about the internal investigation."

"Well, that depends. I mean," he says, and pauses to choose his words and make sure they come out clearly, "if it's self-defense then it's pretty straight-forward. It's just a matter of making sure he doesn't do something like surrendering first. That he really looks like..." He counts off the syllables: "an im-min-ent threat... so all the witness statements match up."

"How do you make sure of something like that?" Prentiss asks.

His eyes flick away and back again, and he shrugs. "Negotiation tactics work both ways. Sometimes... In a tense situation, say one thing, and it de-escalates. Say another thing, the UnSub lifts his gun. _Someone_ has to stop him. Or the victim grabs it and does it for you." He pauses, adds, "Sometimes the UnSub was never the worst guy in the room."

"Like Darren Call and his father," she says without thinking.

His eyes don't move this time. He holds her gaze and says, "I guess so."

There's a silence; they hear the beat of the dance floor filtering out onto the street. Garcia has her mouth open, and they're all thinking of different cases they've closed with shots fired, and wondering...

Then Rossi laughs and claps him on the back. "Okay, Aaron, you win this round. Just wait until we're telling ghost stories around the campfire sometime."

And Reid and Garcia blink and smile in relief, and Morgan warns Rossi, "You're going to have to go up against JJ on that one."

"Too easy!" JJ laughs, and they're all falling into cabs and reciting addresses.

Prentiss arranges her legs inside hers while Hotch gets ready to close the door. It takes longer than it would otherwise because she's thinking and because he wants to be absolutely sure no fingers will get in the way before he shuts it. Abruptly she says, "Hey, Hotch?"

He cocks his head to show he's listening.

She opens her mouth, and hesitates, and the cab driver looks across to see how long this is going to take. "Um," she says, and decides, "Nothing."

He nods equably. "Make sure you drink plenty of water before you go to bed."

It's a good thing they've got a day off tomorrow, she thinks as he gently shuts the door and the cab driver pulls away from the curb. Because drunk as she already is, she's pretty sure when she gets home she's going to need something stronger.


End file.
